Epilogophilia: School for Scandal
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Pool guy 1. Snake 0.


**Disclaimer: **The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Rated: **K+

**The School for Scandal**

epilogue by L.M.Lewis

_Arthur Farnell is a purportedly retired thief, who wrote the book (literally) on crime done with style. Hardcastle gave him a break in court, early in his career; he's regretted it ever since. Now he suspects Farnell is responsible for a recent string of thefts. _

_Farnell __is__ running a crime school. Mark enrolls, and looks like he's headed for the dean's list, if he can only stop flirting with Farnell's girlfriend, Trish, long enough to stay out of detention hall. _

_But Farnell, suspicious of this much talent, does some snooping, and concludes that Mark isn't to be trusted. He sets him up to steal drug-dealer Terrence Harlow's car, threatening to kill Trish if Mark doesn't cooperate. Mark gets the car, then Hardcastle sets up a sting. Harlow and Farnell are both scheduled to meet Mark in a cemetery. _

_Mayhem and arrests ensue. In the end Farnell, in custody, tells Mark he's got real criminal talent. Hardcastle buttonholes the thief and explains, just out of Mark's hearing, exactly why that wouldn't work._

00000

It was a quiet drive home. McCormick seemed lost in thought and the judge figured that was better than getting harangued further about what he'd said to Arthur Farnell in the cemetery. In truth Hardcastle didn't know why he'd made such a secret out of it. Maybe it was just because Mark had been so insistent on knowing, maybe even worried when he hadn't gotten an answer straight out.

Or maybe the younger man's pensive silence had nothing to do with that. Maybe it was just the consequences of his little undercover stint—the showdown in the cemetery, with a mobster and a dangerously angry thief going head to head, with McCormick in the middle.

Or it might have been the consequences of the whole roller-coaster ride that had preceded it. Hardcastle frowned momentarily and then said, "Three cars in three days, is that some kinda record for you?"

McCormick twitched suddenly but didn't take his eyes off the road. His hands might have been gripping the wheel a little tighter; maybe there was a set to his jaw that hadn't been there before. No immediate answer, just a long heavy pause.

It was almost a mutter when it finally came out. "You really expect me to answer that? Anyway," he seemed to be trying to lighten his tone a little, "I don't think the second one counts. That was more like a classroom demonstration. Come to think of it, the third one was homework."

"So it's just the first one, huh?"

"Yeah," he narrowed his eyes and shot a quick sideward glance at the judge. "And it worked, too, so don't get back on my case about _that_."

"So, you're saying the whole thing turned out just the way you wanted?"

"Oh . . . yeah," McCormick said, "I suppose. All the bad guys got locked up and I didn't. That's above par for me."

There was a pause, and then Mark went on. "Whaddaya suppose they'll do with Trish?"

Hardcastle hadn't missed the little interplay between McCormick and Farnell's girlfriend, right before she'd been led off to the squad car. He shrugged.

"Might be a better witness than a defendant, if she wises up in time. You know she just stood there while Farnell tried to take you for a ride."

"I don't think he was gonna kill me," Mark frowned. "He doesn't seem like the type. And I don't think Trish thought he was going to, either."

"Nah, you're right; he doesn't _seem_ like the type. He's the kind who usually gets other people to do his dirty work for him. But he wouldn't have blinked if Harlow had done you in. And Trish, she would have put up and shut up."

"Maybe," Mark said reluctantly.

"That's how it is with that kind. Everybody knows Harlow's an animal. He'd just as soon kill somebody as step around 'em. But the Farnell types, they stand there looking very sharp, outwitting the system—steal from an embassy, take some rich ladies' jewels. Very debonair. No one gets hurt. What's the harm?

"Then some heat comes along and what does he do? He sets you up to take a fall. You were supposed to go down, but no dirt under his fingernails. And then there's Trish, one step back from that—dresses nice, looks real decorative. She knows all that cash didn't come from his investment portfolio. Push comes to shove, she stands by him; he's the one with the jack."

"You have a real positive view of human nature, Hardcase."

The judge shrugged again. "I'm not saying _everybody's_ like that. But a snake is a snake, even with all the fancy manners."

Mark sighed. "Trish wasn't exactly a _snake_—"

"All right, we'll just call her someone who hung out with a snake. There, does that make you feel better?"

"You really think she would have stood there and let Farnell kill me?"

"No, she would've gone off with the body guard and had her nails done. Farnell wouldn't want any witnesses."

"If he even _was_ going to kill me," Mark protested mildly. "He said I have talent. 'A considerable gift'," he added, a little archly. "That's better than you ever said about me."

That comment sat there for a moment, with both men looking straight ahead. It was marginally more subtle than being grabbed by the jacket and asked straight out, like the kid had done in the cemetery, Hardcastle supposed, though there still seemed to be an assumption that he might have said something snide to Farnell.

He let out a sigh. "I just don't think you'd be the type who _could_ look the other way. That'd be a big handicap to someone who ran with Farnell."

Mark frowned. "You're saying I'm too honest?"

"Well, maybe not _too_ honest." Hardcastle let a grin slip out. "Maybe just honest enough."

Mark turned his head just long enough to give the older man a quick, withering glance. "Thanks . . . I think." He dredged up a rueful smile that faded almost as soon as it had appeared.

"Anyway, Farnell's just in it for Farnell," Hardcastle continued on. "No principles . . .. Well, maybe 'Where's mine?'—that'd be the only one."

"Yeah," McCormick said listlessly. "I suppose."

"And I think it would pretty hard for someone with integrity to work for someone who's like that."

Mark started to nod, then stopped and shot another sideward glance. Then he brought his gaze straight forward again and fixed it on the road. There was a brief, silent pause and then, at hardly more than a murmur, "_That's_ what you said?"

"Maybe . . . might've been something like that."

The smile was back and much more genuine. Then McCormick gave a little shake of his head and said, "So, if that's what it was, how come you wouldn't tell _me_, huh?"

One more shrug. "Didn't want you to get a big head, I guess."

"Hah," Mark's laugh was almost explosive. "Big head? _That's_ not too likely—cleaning the pool, clipping the hedges. You have no idea how far down in the world I've come, Hardcase." He was still smiling, but there was an edge of regret to the words that made the judge look to the side and stare for a moment.

"You really think that?" he finally said.

Silence again. It drew out into a thoughtful pause.

"Well . . . I've been lower. I suppose."

"I'd say," Hardcastle harrumphed. And then, to soften that, "But today you helped bust a big-time snake and a smack-dealing mobster. That's a pretty good haul for a pool-guy."

"And I didn't get shot in the process. Big plus there." McCormick grinned.

"And I'll even let you put off the hedge clipping till tomorrow, how's that sound?"

"That's only 'cause you know they'll want us at the station this afternoon to give statements."

"Yeah, any job worth doing is worth doing right," Hardcastle said sententiously.

Mark sighed. "You know, this whole integrity thing could get pretty old."

"Nah, it'll grow on you. You'll see. Give it thirty or forty years."

"Beats three to five." McCormick smiled ruefully again.

"Now you're cookin'."


End file.
